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CQFSRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



THE BALLAD 
OF HATTONCHATEL 



THE BALLAD 
OF HATTONCHATEL 



BY 

CHARLES LOUIS SEEGER 



NEW YORK 
1921 






Copyright, 1921, by 
BELLE SKINNER 



OEC 28 1321 
^•CIA630985 






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MISS BELLE SKINNER 

EEBmLDEB OF HATTONCHATEL 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INVOCATION 1 

PART I 7 

EXPOSTULATION 37 

PART II 45 



INVOCATION 



INVOCATION 

O MUSES nine ! 
Deign to confer upon a worshipper most humble 
A tiny fraction of your powers divine ! 
That may enable him at least to mumble 
A few poor words that shall not quite displease 

A certain gracious Lady. 
I was wont to tease 
Her on her infelicity in explorations 
Of the highways that traverse our sweet France; 

Highways, albeit shady 
And straight and smooth, that terminate in bifurca- 
tions, 
Tempting fair woman to leave all to chance 
And wander off the map 



In quest of what it insufficiently denotes. 
But oh. ! I rue the day that ever I did dare 
To treat with levity one who devotes 
Herself to work beneficent. I would not care 

A rap, 
If she were formed of coarser clay, 
But, when it comes to making fun 
Of one whose wings are sprouting, I must say 
It's shocking taste, and so I have begun 

To write a ballad 
About the Blessing of a Bell 
And other countless blessings that befell 
At picturesque Hattonchatel; 
And last, but by no means the least, 
A most incomparable feast. 

From soup to salad. 



4 



So, Muses all, — 
Or almost all, — do help me pen my lay ! 
Clio, thou most adorable, make me veracious; 
Calliope, bestow an epic strain, I pray; 
Polymnia, grant rhythm to my lines, and gracious 
Melpomene, spread piously a pall 
Upon the tragedy that havoc made 
Of the fair town whose fete I will relate. 

Erato, no, dear, run away, 
I shall not need you, come another day. 
My theme demands your sober sisters' aid, 
To tune my lyre with science adequate. 

O Muses ! Condescend to cast a spell 
Upon the gentle giver of the Bell, 
So that she may not wholly deprecate 
These verses that to her I dedicate: 
The simple Ballad of Hattonchatel. 



PART I 



PART I 

BEFORE great Caesar wrote of Gaul 
In Latin most correct, 
And filled his Commentaries all 
With discourse indirect, 

That even now does still inspire 

The schoolboy's brain with hate 

And prompts the curious to inquire 
Why Brutus struck so late, — 

Before brave Vercingetorix 
A Roman triumph graced. 

Or ere the rich Orgetorix 

Was sentenced and displaced, — 



9 



Before the Merovingians 

The crown of France had won, 
Or ever Carlovingians 

Beleaguered Carcassonne, — 

Above the valley of the Meuse 
A hill rose, whence, they say, 

Rude warriors, clad in skins and furs 
Of beasts less fierce than they. 

The far horizon scanned, in search 

Of an approaching foe, 
And, swooping from their airy perch, 

Pounced down on him below; 

Or, if his forces were too great 
To meet in combat fair. 

They prudently did him await 
In their well-chosen lair 



10 



And greeted him with clouds of stones 

Or, haply, boiling oil; 
Then, careless of their victims* groans. 

Rushed down to claim their spoil. 

A dismal age it was, forsooth, 

That prehistoric time. 
When chieftains rude and troops uncouth 

Were occupied in crime. 

Hills were not valued in those days 

As outlooks picturesque, 
WTierefrom to view through rising haze 

The river's arabesque. 

The valleys leading miles away, 

The forest's vast expanse. 
The meadows, decked with flowers gay 

Of sweet and sunny France. 



11 



For centuries those heights still frowned 

Upon the plains below; 
Then feudal lords their summits crowned 

With fortress and chateau, 

Whose donjon, battlements and tower 

Defied the foe with scorn. 
And Knighthood blossomed into flower 

And Chivalry was born. 

Now gentler manners held their sway; 

Fair ladies graced the board 
And listened to the minstrel's lay. 

No longer was the sword 

The only weapon man did wield, 

But eke the pen and lute. 
Wherewith to make his mistress yield 

And crown his ardent suit. 



12 



That was a golden age, I ween, 
For maids and matrons too. 

When Thibaut wrote rhymes to the Queen 
And Aucassins did woo 

His "douce amie" with courteous love, 

Despite a father's threat. 
And scorned the joys of Heav'n above 

For joy of Nicolette. 

So passed the time right merrily 
'Twixt love and war and song 

And castled heights grew, verily. 
So numerous and strong 

That king and ministers began 
To fume and fret and frown 

And wondered if their lords did plan 
Revolt against the crown. 



A haughty Cardinal appeared 

At a convenient hour 
And very promptly interfered 

To stem the feudal power. 

He chose a method most direct 
To check the nobles' pride, 

With gunpowder their chateaux wrecked 
And breached their ramparts wide. 

And so to-day on wooded crest 

A tower or shattered wall 
Will oft the trav'ler's eye arrest 

And Richelieu recall. 

But these are not the only towers 
That crown the hills of France, 

For, long before the feudal powers 
Had suffered dire mischance. 



14 



A builder far more competent 

To meet the test of time 
Had chosen sites most prominent 

Whereon to rear subhme 

The sacred symbol of the Cross 
So all the world could see, 

For Holy Church was ne'er at loss 
To use publicity 

For greater glory of Our Lord 
Or e'en a martyred saint, 

And now, as if with one accord. 
Rose spires and belfries quaint. 

Whose bells the faithful called to mass, 
And, from the country round, 

Came rich and poor, of ev'ry class, 
Responsive to their sound. 



15 



Where'er a church on hilltop stood, 

'Neath its maternal wing 
There nestled soon a little brood 

Of red roofs, sheltering 

The peasant folk, who tilled the soil 
And pruned the fruitful vine, 

Nor e'er forgot, in hours of toil. 
The Blessed Virgin's shrine. 

They brought to Her the poppies red 

That grew amidst the wheat 
And wreathed them round Her sacred head, 

Or laid them at Her feet. 

No errant knight nor paladin 

Such courtesy displayed, 
Nor ever to an earthly queen 

Such loyal homage paid 



16 



As Mary, Queen of Heav'n, received 
From high afid low as well, 

Whose intercession, they believed, 

Would save their souls from Hell. 

It was in this wise that the hill. 

These stanzas celebrate. 
Passed through succeeding epochs, till 

Its profile delicate, 

Adorned with spire and Gothic arch. 
Stood out against the sky, 

A witness to the onward march 
Of peace and industry, 

That beautified the fertile plain, — 
The battle-field of yore, — 

With yellow stretch of waving grain. 
Where banners waved before. 



17 



But naught in all the countryside 

In beauty can excel 
The village, seen from far and wide. 

White-walled Hattonchatel. 

A veritable diadem, 

It rests upon the brow 
Of Mother Earth. No costly gem 

Such setting has, I trow. 

Nor half so flawlessly reflects 
The light that on it plays 

As, when Apollo first directs 
His horizontal rays 

Upon the dull gray silhouette 
Of roofs and gables old, — 

It softens into violet, 

Then rose, then burnished gold. 



18 



The wayfarer, who passes by. 
Can scarce believe his eyes. 

For, there suspended in the sky, 
A fairy palace hes, 

By mist translucent glorified, 

Through which its turrets shine. 

Like those that Wotan reared to hide 
The treasure of the Rhine; 

Or like the castle that the wand 

Of Klingsor improvised. 
Where flower maids, with gesture fond. 

The "guileless fool" surprised. 

E'en as Walhalla's stateliness 
And Klingsor's magic art 

Did vanish into nothingness 

When they had played their part. 



19 



The wayfarer's bright fantasy 
No longer can persist, 

As Phoebus' chariot chmbs on high 
And drives away the mist, 

Disclosing beauties new and real, 
Of all enchantment shorn. 

But challenging with mute appeal 
The glamour of the dawn. 

And, when the sunset banners fly 
Across the floating wrack, 

The poplars cut the western sky 
With spikes of deepest black. 

Those who Segovia have seen, 

Or proud Siena's site. 
May celebrate their noble mien 

And praise their lordly height. 



20 



But give me fair Hattonchatel, 

Whose promontory bold 
Has been the valley's sentinel 

For centuries untold. 

One August day, six years ago, 

It signalled the advance 
Of the hereditary foe 

For ravage of sweet France. 

"Der Tag," — the Junker's frequent toast. 

In arrogance conceived, — 
Had dawned, and justified the boast 

(At least, they so believed) 

That they would dine on Christmas Day 

In Paris by the Seine 
And there confirm the Teuton's sway 

From Baltic Sea to Spain. 



21 



Across the Belgian frontier 

The gray-clad armies poured 

And marked each stage of their career 
With scourge of fire and sword, 

Proclaiming that a single cross, 

In haste erected o'er 
A German grave, meant greater loss 

Than that of Louvain's lore 

And all that Reims' Cathedral gave 

Of beauty to the world, 
Its sculptured portals, lofty nave. 

Where Joan of Arc unfurled 

The sacred oriflamme of France, 
As by her King she stood, 

His coronation to enhance 

With her brave maidenhood. 



22 



Can aught be found more typical 

Of the Teutonic brain ? 
A mind more analytical 

Could never ascertain 

Why, even if their claim was just 
And Art was held so cheap, 

They need exchange their precious dust 
Such harvest poor to reap ! 

The crosses of the German slain 
Stand not on German soil. 

In token of a duty plain 

To guard their homes from spoil; 

No ! Ev'ry one records a life 

In mad adventure lost. 
In vain invasion, senseless strife. 

Essayed at honor's cost. 



23 



By early victories misled, 

The German host pressed on 

To seize the prize they coveted 
And fancied they had won. 

Beneath Napoleon's stately arch, 
Resounding with their tread. 

They pictured a triumphal march, 
The Kaiser at their head. 

But e'en as 'twixt the cup and lip 

Mishap doth often he, 
Fate gave them the proverbial slip 

And smote them hip and thigh 

Upon the Marne's vast battle-field. 
Where first they learned to gauge 

The power that patriots can wield 
To save their heritage. 



24 



No less misfortune did they meet 

At the Grand Couronne, 
Where ignominious defeat 

Completed their dismay, 

Frustrated their design to end 

The war in one campaign 
And forced the Teuton horde to spend 

Four years in which to gain — 

Their object ? No ! In vain attempt 
To prove their vaunted might, 

They merely proved their own contempt 
For justice, truth and right. 

Brought ruin on their Fatherland 
And wrought destruction dire 

On land and sea, with iron hand, 
More terror to inspire. 



25 



We all remember, — ^who were wont 

To follow anxiously 
The changes in the battle front 

From BeKort to the sea — 

How, while elsewhere, with shot and shell, 

The foe were driven back, 
The salient of Saint-Mihiel 

Resisted all attack 

And, threatening with apex keen 
To pierce the French defense, 

It symbolized the German mien 
Of boastful confidence. 

Within that triangle, alas ! 

Lay fair Hattonchatel, 
Condemned four dreary years to pass. 

As in a prison cell. 



20 



In custody of jailers rude. 

Who of its sculpture rare 
The church and cloisters did denude 

And brutally lay bare. 

In order that it might bedeck 

An antiquary's wall, 
Or in some gloomy Glyptothek 

Be lost for good and all. 

No more the sound of bells was heard 

From out the belfry high 
Their bronze must go to make more shells 

With which to multiply 

Bombardments such as had bestrown 

The byways, once so clean. 
With shapeless heaps of tiles and stone, 

Where humble homes had been. 



27 



Unroofed the church, profaned its choir, 

Its sacred altar wrecked, 
And riddled the majestic spire 

With cannonade unchecked 

Until the little garrison 

Must needs capitulate 
To foes, who, in comparison, 

Were more than adequate 

To seize, on that September day, 

The village on the hill 
And hasten forward on their way. 

Their purpose to fulfil. 

At Apremont and Thiaucourt, 

In all the country round. 
The lowly dwellings of the poor 

Were levelled to the ground. 



28 



While onward the invaders went 
To capture Saint-Mihiel, 

And there complete the sahent 
Wherein Hattonchatel 

Was doomed to suffer martyrdom, 

A victim to Kultur, 
Her former Mairie now become 

"Der Ortskommandantur," 

Her church a barracks and its tower 

An observation post, 
Her heights a witness to the power 

Of the Germanic host; 

Her homeless cottagers despoiled 
Of all that they held dear, 

For which their ancestors had toiled 
And saved for many a year. 



29 



And so HattoncMtel, in shame, 
Bowed helpless to the foe 

Until a fourth September came 
To terminate her woe. 

A nation far across the sea 

At last had rubbed its eyes 

And roused itself from lethargy, 
Responsive to the cries 

That put to shame neutrality 

And pharisaic cant, 
Recalling its true quality 

Of justice militant. 

A million men declared that they 
Were not too proud to fight 

And crossed the ocean on their way 
To battle for the right. 



30 



They brought to France, with grief oppressed, 
Fresh strength and eager hearts, 

The optimism of the West, 

That buoyant hope imparts. 

Enthusiastic, confident, 

They made but one demand, — 
That into action they be sent 

And under French command. 

At Chateau Thierry, Belleau Wood 

And in the dense Argonne, 
They played their part as heroes should 

And victors' laurels won. 

Then came their chance to fight as well 

In a distinct campaign. 
To drive the foe from Saint-Mihiel 

And hberate Lorraine. 



m 



So this is how it came to pass 

That fair Hattonchatel 
Threw off the fetters that, alas, 

Had bound her all too well. 

For, on a glad September day, 
(Thirteenth, to be exact,) 

The enemy had shpped away 
Before he was attacked; 

The joyous sound of fife and drum 
Now heralds the advance 

Of troops in khaki clad, who come 
To take the hill for France. 

Our glorious Stars and Stripes beside 

The tricolor they raise. 
While over all the countryside 

Rings out the "Marseillaise," 



32 



And "Madelon" and "Over There," 

In friendly rivalry, 
Contribute equally their share 

To swell the revelry. 

But ah, the pity that no peal 

Of mad revolving bell 
Proclaims the turn of Fortune's wheel 

That saved Hattonchatel ! 

The riddled church tower silent stands. 

Majestic as of yore. 
But, voiceless, waits for pious hands 

To give it speech once more. 

Have courage, ancient belfry grim ! 

The fateful sisters three 
E'er now have spun a web too dim 

For mortal eye to see. 



33 



But bards have ever scorned the odds 

That baffle human ken 
And, e'en as Homer saw the Gods 

Direct the acts of men, 

Why should I not descry the thread 
That Clotho's spindle wrought. 

While Atropos, with scissors dread, 
Forbore to cut it short 

And Lachesis did pull, with such 

Success, the filament. 
That soon 'twas long enough to touch 

Another continent. 

Three thousand miles across the sea, 
Where, at the Gods' command. 

It twined itself full craftily 
Around a woman's hand. 



34 



With magic power it gently drew 
The owner of the hand 

From scenes of plenty, with a view 
To help this stricken land, 

And so, inexorably led 

By Fate's resistless spell. 

She followed up the slender thread 
Until Hattonchatel 

In mutilated splendor lay 

Before her wondering gaze; — 

No time she lost, — that very day 
She planned a hundred ways 

To remedy the damage wrought 
By war's infliction sore, 

And eagerly permission sought 
Its beauty to restore. 



35 



'Twas thus the lovely village won 
Its bountiful Marraine; 

With that accomplished, hereupon 
I interrupt my strain, 

To finish it anon, in verse 
Less ponderous in tone. 

And now and then to intersperse 
Some lines that may atone 

By help of pleasant anecdote 
And touch of humor gay. 

For aught of trite or tiresome note 
That lingers in my lay. 



36 



y 



EXPOSTULATION 



EXPOSTULATION 

O MUSES nine ! 
(Particularly Clio,) 
I have been waiting for an opportunity, 
These many days, your temple to approach, 
With firm intent to cavil and reproach. 
Have you forgotten with what importunity 

I begged your help benign ? 
And yet you've let me flounder in the mire 
Of verbiage cacophonous 

Time after time, and caused my readers to inquire : 
"What is there in this poet to admire? 
" 'Tis rather rough on us 
"To palm this off onus!" 



39 



fie ! O Clio ! 
You are the worst offender. Did you deem, perchance. 
That I was capable of such presumption 
As to attempt improvement on Guizot, 
By writing a new History of France 

In limping verse ? 
If so, it was an ill-advised assumption 
And was responsible, I'd have you know. 
For all my wandering 
And frequent maundering, 

If nothing worse. 

I did so earnestly desire to write 

A sweet and lightsome lay; 

Then why did you permit me to indict. 

In tone emphatic. 
The Germans for their love of devastation? 
A ballad should not be a dissertation, 
Nor from the paths of poesy be led astray 

By aught pragmatic. 

40 



And tell me too, — ^how could you ever let 

Your worshipper importunate 

Repeat the words unfortunate 

Of our retiring Chief Magistrate? 

You must admit that you have never met 

A phrase so hackneyed and so very trite 

As that of his: "We are too proud to fight." 

Of course you've read, 
That is, — if Muses ever read, for I suspect 
You Muses take an undue time to muse 
And the diversion of a Muse is to amuse 
Herself by spinning lazily a dime 
To see if she must finally reveal a rhyme 
To some despairing poet. I correct. 
Therefore, my statement and will say 

Perhaps you've read 
About a certain famous old Memorial, 
Into whose preparation editorial 

King Charles's head 
Insisted on intruding ! — in like way, 

41 



When an American, who lived in Mexico, 
Attempts to write a ballad, speech or play. 
The chances are that he will never know 
When Woodrow Wilson's head will intervene 
And tempt him grievously to vent his spleen 
Upon that statesman cold. 
You should not then withhold 
Your aid divine, but guide the erring pen 
Into the strait and narrow path again. 

And now, O Muses fair, a final question 
Before you say you can no longer tarry, — 
My query covers not the least suggestion 

Of any levity, — 
Do any of you, ladies, ever carry, 

m 

As a side line, if I may call it so, 
Thegift of Brevity? 
For I would humbly ask that you bestow 
Upon your servant here a share of it. 
The proverb says it is the soul of Wit; 

42 



Alas, if that be true 
And probably it is, — what I have writ, 
So far, is witless 
And not a bit less 
For being witness 
Of many a struggle to reduce its length. 

Well, well, I must not rue 
The past, but try with all my strength 
And with your help, henceforth to make amends. 
So here this mild expostulation ends. 

On with the Ballad of Hattonchdtel 
And let us sing the Blessing of the Bell ! 



43 



PART II 



PART II 

In springtime, when, with careless mirth 

And mischievous intent, 
The idle zephyrs roam the earth, 

Upon adventure bent, — 

Before their amorous attack 
The modest poplars quail. 
Each little leaflet turns its back 
And grows distinctly pale; 

But straightway curiosity 

Compels a stolen glance, 
With shy impetuosity 

They turn about and dance. 



47 



The fleecy clouds now drift apart 
And sunbeams dart between. 

To join the riot and impart 

More splendor to the scene; 

They fleck the leaflets as they toss 
Upon their tender stems 

And, mirrored in their verdant gloss, 
Become as flashing gems. 

So mad a bacchanale, 'tis clear. 
An orchestra requires, — 

The song-birds quickly volunteer 
To lend their feathered choirs; 

The meadow flowers upward turn 
Their eyes in wonderment. 

With blushes red their faces burn, 
To see such merriment. 



48 



In sooth it IS a great event 

For field and flower and tree, 

When zephyrs on adventure bent 
Steal softly o'er the lea ! 

In tune with Nature's gladsome mood, 
This smiling morn of May, 

Within his cloistered portal stood 
A priest, whose visage gay 

His sober garb did contradict 
And marked him for a man 

Who knows that joy does not conflict 
With Life's predestined plan. 

Beneath the cassock that so well 
Defines his sturdy frame, 

The Cure of Hattonchatel 
Conceals a heart of flame 



49 



That burns with ardor quite as real 
As fired the saints of yore, 

And bids him work with holy zeal 
His parish to restore. 

To make this an accomplished fact 
No method does he spurn, 

Persuasion, strategy and tact 
Are all employed in turn; 

Or, failing by a clever ruse 

To gain his pious end. 
He knows when it is time to use 

The power the Church doth lend. 

*Tis thus he dominates his flock 
And moulds them to his will. 

Nor fails the dullards' thrift to block 
With admirable skill. 



50 



If haply any doubts exist 
Of his discretion, — pray 

Let those who question duly list 
To all that passed this day. 

Now comes a man upon the scene 

Of quite another kind, 
Whose knitted brow and visage lean 

Betrays a gloomy mind. 

"Good morrow, Monsieur le Cure." 
'*Bon jour. Monsieur le Maire, 
"Why on this merry morn of May 
"Art so bowed down with care.f^ 

"Dost see the sunlight gild the trees.'' 
"Hast heard the mavis sing, 
"Or hstened to the hum of bees, 
"Or felt the breath of Spring.? 



51 



"If all these beauties cannot drive 
"The cobwebs from thy brain, 

"Know that this morning will arrive 
"Our generous Marraine, 

"Her work beneficent to view, 
"Our humble Hfe to share 

"And, doubtless, shower blessings new 
"Upon our village fair." 

The Mayor shook his head: "The trees 
"Will bear no fruit this year; 

"I have no hives to which the bees 

"Their homeward course may steer. 

"Our benefactress, it is true, 

"Is loved by young and old, 

"To her munificence are due 
"Advantages untold; 



52 



*But while we value our Marraine 
"And laud her kind intent, 

*Her very benefits contain 
"The seeds of discontent. 

'My prominence political 
"Subjects me to attacks 

'From persons who are critical 
"Of aught that swells the tax. 

'In plain words, Monsieur le Cure, 
"'Tis all about the pump; 

They pester me both night and day 
"And keep me on the jump, 

Because they find the new machine, 
"That they did hail with joy, 

Consumes a lot of gasolene 
"And proves a costly toy. 



53 



"Each family will have to pay 
"A franc per month at least, 

"And that's too much, the people say, 
"To water man or beast. 

"You know the widow Lafontaine, 
"Who's eighty-three years old, — 

"She whines: ^For threescore years and ten, 
"*In sun and rain and cold, 

"'I've brought the water up the hill 
"*And now I'm asked to pay, 

"*That lazy girls their pails may fill 
"*In this new-fangled way!' 

"And as for Hegesippe Godard 

"And Aristide Bidou, — 
"They'll pay the price for their pinard, — 

"For water, — 'pas un sou!' 



54 



'Now by the . . . no, I must not swear, 
"Although you rouse my wrath; 

'I doubt if that old widow there 
"Has ever had a bath ! 

"And Hegesippe and Aristide 

"Of course the pump would flout. 

They think that water never need 
"Be used inside or out. 

'But theirs are not the only votes 

"That will the case decide, 
'We'll force the water down their throats 

"And make them pay beside !" 

'Mon frere," a woman's quiet voice 

Cut short the dialogue, 
'Instead of threatening, rejoice, 

"The town is all agog. 



55 



"The children say that they have seen, 

"Approaching from afar 
"In clouds of dust, what must have been 

"Our lady's motor-car, 

"Because, from time to time, its speed 
"Was slackened, so they say, 

"While Monsieur Louis stopped to read 
"The guide-posts on the way! 

"Come then and let us welcome back 

"Our benefactress dear, — 
"Oh, 'tis a pity that we lack 

"A bell that she might hear 

"A-ringing in the belfry high 

"With loud and joyous peal, 

"To let her know, as she draws nigh, 
"The gratitude we feel." 



56 



"My sister, I will find a way 

*'To get the needed bell; 
"Rome was not builded in a day, 

"Nor yet Hattonchatel. 

"Before the trees their foliage shed 
"And autumn's glories pass, 

''A bell will call thee from thy bed 
"To early morning mass. 

*But on this day the motor-horn 
"The church-bell must replace; 

*A smile of welcome will adorn 
"Our Mayor's careworn face, 

'The village folk will flock to see 
"The motor climb the hill; 

'The boys and girls will voice their glee 
"In accents high and shrill." 



57 



The Cure's words describe so well 
What happened on that day, 

That naught remains for me to tell, 
Except, perhaps, to say 

That subjects seldom have displayed 

To reigning sovereign 
A truer homage than was paid 

Hattonchatel's Marraine. 

But even as in days of old 

The subjects' loyalty 
Oft owed its ardor to the gold 

Dispensed by royalty. 

Among the village folk were some. 
Who ventured to propose 

A meeting to which all should come, 
Particularly those 



58 



Who thought that water must be free, 
Where'er 'twas made to flow, 

And on the hill its cost should be 
Just what it was below. 

With this sophistic argument 
They opened the debate. 

In hope of aid benevolent 
The pump to operate, 

Thereby insuring the defense 
Of each one's bas de laine 

And putting the entire expense 
Upon their chere Marraine. 

The village socialist began. 

With fiery eloquence. 
Insisting on the right of Man 

To all three elements: 



59 



Fire, air and water, not to speak 

Of many things beside, 
Of which the strong deprive the weak, 

To swell their bourgeois pride. 

"My fellow townsmen, why delude 
"Yourselves and so permit 

"A little thing like altitude 

"To cloud your mother wit? 

"Does air less free to all become, 

"The higher the ascent? 
"Why then should water differ from 

"Its sister element?" 

The Cure smiled and said, "My friend, 
"You must admit that air, 

"For every league that you ascend, 
"Grows constantly more rare; 



60 



'*But ere we won the loving care 
*'0f our Marraine, you know, 

*No element was half so rare 
"As that of HgO ! 

* Forgive my language chemical; 

"Your discourse erudite 
*And argument polemical 

"Did like reply invite. 

*Now, children, to be serious, 
"I am most deeply grieved; 

'There's nothing so mysterious 
"In what you have conceived. 

'You know the water's worth to you 
"A hundred times its cost. 

But now it's here you grudge each sou 
"And call it money lost. 



61 



"I'm going to tell a bit of news 
"That you will hear with glee, 

"And if it does not change your views 
"Mistaken I shall be. 

"You know how all of us did prize 
"The bell the Germans stole, 

"But do you fully realize 
"The danger to the soul 

"Of always being late to mass, 
"For lack of warning bell? 

"I'll let your tardinesses pass, 
"If what I have to tell 

"Awakens generosity 

"In your ignoble minds." 

By this time, curiosity 

Their calculation blinds 



62 



And all would readily subscribe 
A franc or two at least, 

If by so doing they could bribe 
The tantalizing priest 

His wondrous secret to divulge; 

So now the holy man 
Resolved their humor to indulge 

And with these words began: 

"The piece of news I have to tell 

"Will fill your hearts with shame 

"Our good Marraine will give a Bell 
"To bear her gracious name, 

"And when it comes from overseas, 

"If I do rightly guess, 
"The Bishop of the diocese 

"Her splendid gift will bless. 



63 



"In truth, 'twill be a holiday 
"That none will e'er forget, 

"When people come from miles away 
"To see our town en fete." 

The Cure's speech was hailed with cheers; 

The widow Lafontaine 
Is first to quaver, midst her tears, 

"Long live our good Marraine! 

"May I but hve to see the day !" 

The Mayor's lines relax; 
He knows there'll be no more delay 

To meet the water tax; 

And even Aristide Bidou 

And Hegesippe Godard 
Become enthusiastic too 

And join in the huzza. 



64 



How did the Lady in the case 
Comport herself the while ? 

At first amusemeDt lit her face 
And then a puzzled smile, 

Becoming worried as her friend, 

The masterful Cure, 
Drew slowly nearer to the end 

Of what he had to say. 

Till then, it must be understood, 
No talk of bell she'd heard. 

But, being in a sporting mood, — 
She graciously concurred. 

Thus did the wily man of God 
Bejuggle tout le monde, 

To lovely woman or to clod 
His arts did correspond. 



65 



'Chere Miss, what shall we call the Bell?" 

He asked, unblushingly, 
'Your name, though it describes you well, 

"Is quite too short, you see; 

'Besides, no patronymic saint, 

"As far as I can tell 
'From records with which I'm acquaint, 

"Was canonized as * Belle.' 

'Two syllables, then, let us add, 

"To make it *Isabelle,' 
'And, if another name you had, 

"'Twould round it out quite well." 

'My mother's name was Sarah, sir, 

"And, if you so incline, 
■ 'Twould please me much to honor her 

"And link her name with mine." 



66 



"No better name, chere Mademoiselle, 

"Could possibly be found 
"Than that of Sarah Isabelle 

"To match the Bell's sweet sound." 

Thus, even as the busy bee 

The shining hour improves. 

The priest, with equal industry. 
Each obstacle removes. 

The people, too, display a zeal 

They never knew before. 
The ravages of war to heal, 

Their altars to restore. 

The scattered stones in piles are set, 
The village streets made clear 

And all is ready for the fete 
As autumn days draw near. 



67 



Now let us hasten to Lorraine 

In time to see how gay 
Hattonchatel and- its Marraine 

Can make a hoHday. 

When Chanticleer the dawn proclaimed 
In accents Rostand-esque, 

As France's emblem, he declaimed 
These phrases picturesque: 

"Men of Hattonchatel, I pray 
"You, hearken to my voice, 

"Le jour de gloire est arrive ! 
"Be thankful and rejoice. 

"Let past rebuffs of adverse fate 
"Your present joy enhance 

"And show the strangers at your gate 
"The bravery bf France !" 



68 



I did not hear this, for I slept 

Long after it was light, 
(I've seldom seen the dawn, except 

When I've stayed out all night) 

But all the villagers, I'm told, 
Distinctly heard him crow 

And his injunctions young and old 
With joy obeyed, I know. 

For, when we visitors arrived, 

The revelry and fun, 
Of which they were so long deprived, 

Already had begun. 

Beribboned maidens thronged the lanes 

And, so to dazzle more 
The eyes of their respective swains, 

Coquettishly they wore 



69 



The lace-trimmed bonnet of Lorraine 

Or black Alsatian bow. 
Either of which will turn the brain 

Of any man, you know. 

A like temptation to entrap 

Extended to the old. 
For Mere Lafontaine's ruffled cap 

Was wondrous to behold; 

The Cure's sister, most demure, 
• Displayed the silken gown 
A victim to her charms mature 

Had brought her from the town. 

But none possessed the panoply 

Of Sarah Isabelle 
Beneath the flowered canopy 

Enshrining her so well 



70 



A mantle of the richest lace 
Her shoulder overhung; 

She wore it with a quiet grace 
And silent was her tongue, 

Like to a maid, who goes arrayed 
In garb of purest white 

To first communion, half afraid 
Her lesson to recite. 

Now to the church the people pass 
And in its roofless nave 

The Bishop of Verdun says mass, 
In honor of the brave. 

Who deemed no death more glorious 
Than that they freely chose, 

So France might be victorious 
And triumph o'er her foes. 



71 



In great cathedrals, where the Kght 
Through jewelled panes invades 

The gloom and, with a radiance bright. 
Illumes the pillared shades. 

One marvels and is filled with awe 

Of human skill and art. 
But those, who on that morning saw. 

Through rafters torn apart, 

The sunlight from the cloudless sky 

Upon the altar shine, 
BeKeved that straight from God on high 

Descended grace divine. 

The service ends. ... In eagerness 

A nearer view to gain. 
All crowd to see the Bishop bless 

The gift of their Marraine. 



72 



At first, in phrases eloquent, 

He recapitulates 
The Lady's deeds beneficent 

And then he consecrates 

Her lace-clad namesake, whom a pale 
Gray mist of incense sweet 

Enfolds, as with a perfumed veil, 
Her toilette to complete. 

To disregard these sacred rites 
Would rob the Bell of power 

To drive away the evil sprites. 
Who fly about the tower. 

And so she meekly held her tongue 
(With splendid self-command, 

Considering her sex . . .) till rung 
By Monseigneur's own hand. 



73 



Ah, with what joy the people heard 

The long-expected note ! 
The hearts of all were thrilled and stirred 

By thought of days remote. 

When bells a higher value bore 
Than weight of bronze alone. 

And shriek of shell and cannon's roar 
Were sounds as yet unknown. 

Like children, who from dreams awake 

And soon forget their fear. 
The Bell's familiar tone did make 

The war less real appear. 

And how delighted, then, they were 

To hear the Donor fair 
Repeat the sound and, after her 

In turn, Monsieur le Maire ! 



74 



Now that the Bell is duly blessed, 

We cross the narrow way 
To where a Tribune has been dressed 

With flags and streamers gay; 

The Stars and Stripes make gallant show, 

The Tricouleur as well. 
CTwas on this day, two years ago, 

We took Hattonch^tel.) 

Religion having had its hour, 

'Tis fitting that the State, 
Through both departments of its power. 

Should now participate. 

First General Berthelot will pay 

"Hommage a I'Amerique," 
And after him the Sous-Prefet 

Of Commercy will speak. 



75 



Less easy than when under fire, 
The soldier reads his speech; 

He has but one sincere desire, — 
The end of it to reach. 

The Sous-Prefet beheves that Art 

Is long and Life is brief; 
His present chance to play the part 

Of orator-in-chief 

May be his last and so, in heat 
And length of brilHant phrase. 

No rival can with him compete 
Except Apollo's rays. 

Which grow in strength as noon draws near 

And pauses there are none 
Until, between the two, we fear 

Our brains are too well done. 



76 



The Bishop mops his shining brow 
And moves his Hps in prayer; 

The General wonders why and how 
He came in this "galere." 

But all things come to him who waits 

And with the "Marseillaise" 
The ceremony terminates. 

All go their several ways: 

The peasants to their homes, to eat 

A bountiful repast, 
That their Marraine, with forethought sweet, 

Has sent to break their fast; 

The guests to gather at her board. 

Where viands do abound, 
For which Lucullus would have poured 

Libations on the ground. 



77 



But not alone the sense of taste 

Will here be gratified, 
For, when at table we are placed, 

A panorama wide 

Of all the plain from west to east, 

Beneath an azure sky, 
Provides a veritable feast 

Of beauty for the eye. 

Nor is the ear to be deprived 
Of pleasure's share to-day; 

This very moment have arrived 
The bold chasseurs a pied; 

With trumpets flashing in the sun 

They play the "Sambre et Meuse,'* 

Whose strain the heart of every one 
To wild emotion stirs. 



78 



Its echoes scarce had died away 
To silence, when occurred 

The crowning beauty of the day, 
For suddenly was heard 

A rush of melody so clear. 

Tumultuous and strong. 
It flooded all the atmosphere 

With one triumphant song. 

Peal followed peal in reckless race. 

The harmony to swell, 
And now we hear the populace 

Cry out "The BeU ! the BeU !" 

The company, in great amaze, 

At one another stare, 
Then stand with one accord and raise 

Their glasses high in air. 



79 



To drink, in unison, the health 

Of Sarah Isabelle, 
Who, with an unsuspected stealth, — 

But how they cannot tell, — 

Has left her comfortable bower. 
Where they beheld her last. 

And cHmbed the stairway of the tower 
With daring unsurpassed. 

Suspicion cannot help but fall 

Upon the good Cure, 
For he was at the root of all 

That happened on this day; 

And, if he could no longer wait 
To make the welkin ring, 

Then wherefore should he hesitate 
Or balk at anything ? 



80 



'Twas easy for him to invite 

Some youths among his flock 

To hoist the Bell and gain the right 
To make it sway and rock. 

And so the Angelus was rung; 

The silence of six years 
Was broken, and the people hung 

With mingled smiles and tears 

Upon the sound so sweet and rare, 
Then all their hands did fold 

And said the short famihar prayer. 
As they had done of old. 

Oh, ancient belfry, grim and gray. 
Thy patience is repaid; 

Destruction now has had its day 
And pious hands have laid 



81 



Foundations for an era new. 

Those fateful sisters three 
Have now fulfilled and proven true 

The minstrel's prophecy. 

No more wilt thou, in dumb despair, 
Man's wanton wastage face. 

But with thy new-found voice declare 
Rehgion's saving grace. 

So, ancient belfry, tall and gray. 
Dismiss the minstrel then. 

Ring down the curtain on his play 
And bid him drop his pen; 

For otherwise no one can tell 
How long he might extend 

The Ballad of Hattonchatel, 
Or when he'd reach 

THE END. 

82 



Two hundred and twenty-five copies of this 
book were printed for Belle Skinner by the 
Scribner Press, New York, in December, 1921. 



83 



